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March 17, 2010

César Vallejo (Peruvian, March 16, 1892 – April 15, 1938)

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There Are Days, There Comes to Me an Exuberant, Political Hunger

Me viene, hay días, una gana ubérrima, política

There are days, there comes to me an exuberant, political hunger
to desire, to kiss tenderness on both cheeks,
and there comes to me from afar a demonstrative
desire, another desire to love, willingly or by force,
whoever hates me, whoever tears up his paper, the little boy,
the woman who weeps for the man who was weeping,
the king of wine, the slave of water,
whoever hid in his wrath,
whoever sweats, whoever passes by, whoever shakes his person in my soul.
And I desire, therefore, to adjust
the braid of whoever talks to me; the soldier's hair;
the light of the great; the greatness of the child.
I desire to iron directly
a handkerchief for whoever is unable to cry
and, when I am sad or happiness aches me,
to mend the children and the geniuses.

I desire to help the good one become a little bad
and I have an urge to be seated
to the right of the left-handed, and to respond to the mute,
trying to be useful to him
as I can, and likewise I desire very much
to wash the cripple's foot,
and to help my one-eyed neighbor sleep.

Ah to desire, this one, mine, this one, the world's,
interhuman and parochial, mature!
It comes perfectly timed,
from the foundation, from the public groin,
and, coming from afar, makes me hunger to kiss
the singer's muffler,
and whoever suffers, to kiss him on his frying pan,
the deaf man, fearlessly, on his cranial murmur,
whoever gives me what I forgot in my breast,
on his Dante, on his Chaplin, on his shoulders.

I desire, finally,
when I'm at the celebrated edge of violence
or my heart full of chest, I would desire
to help whoever smiles laugh,
to put a little bird right on the evildoer's nape,
to take care of the sick annoying them,
to buy from the vendor,
to help the killer kill — a terrible thing—
and I would desire to be good to myself
in everything.